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Saturday, February 27, 2010

I'm in hiding this afternoon. Last night was my second annual VAGTAIL, cocktail sans Hommes. The twenty-ten addition overflowed with apple-lime-tini drinks complete with flashing ice cubes, and franco-anglo-relations in all their galoriousness. Meaning, I migrated from the french circle to the anglo circle, trying to get oil and water to mix. I now fully understand the concept of herding cats and still have a few things to learn before I can add "feline wrangler extraordinaire" to my resume.

During my self-inflicted, head-pounding isolation this afternoon I flicked on the telly hoping to turn off my brain for a few hours. The Canal + show "Effet Papillon" seemed like a good idea, and I curled up in my L-couch, fully prepared to doze into a post-party coma when...

Carla Bruni fucking ruined my nap.

Bitch.

It would seem that Madame first lady of France has pulled out of an Italian music festival because of lyrics that poked fun at Sarko.

My eyes popped open like they were spring loaded when I heard this. I doubted my hearing for the first few minutes if the report. Surely I'd heard that wrong.

The world's most renowned super-model turned French would-be queen is insulted that a song about her was going to be broadcast live all over Italy?

...OK, so it poked fun at them a teensie little bit.

...OK. A lot.

OK, so it basically said their marriage is a sham whose sole purpose is to parade Carla around France like she's some kind of magician's assistant. Look over here!! Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!! Who wants to tap that? (PS am I the only one who thinks her smile is just CREEPY?! That smile has a definite stepford serial killer vibe. Check out those crazy teeth for yourselves)

No one likes to be made fun of, and I can understand not wanting your husband picked on; but let's not get carried away here people. Truth be told, the real source of my annoyance stems from the media attention this is getting in light of recent Chilean earthquakes and other catastrophes. Do we really need ANOTHER story about Carla?? I'm going all Marsha, Marsha, Marsha on your asses, but I don't care. Why does SHE get all the attention?

I blame Mme. Bruni for the purple bags under my eyes this Saturday evening. Maybe I can take Monday morning off and bill it to Le Palais Elysée?

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

I love your country. It's full of beauty, and charm, and everyone has been so lovely. I'm enchanted by your compatriot's accents and feel like saying "Jolly Good Man!!" and "Cheers!", and hanging out on the queen's doorstep making faces at guards who hate me for my unoriginality.

If I weren't put off by it's infamously horrible weather and a gastronomic standard unworthy of a guinea pig, I'd even consider moving there.

There's just one thing I can't understand:

Everything you say.

I honestly tried. I don't think it was the four forty-five a.m. wake up call that was inhibiting my comprehension, either. I doubt even proper British natives could decipher the ridiculous mix of swearwords and claptrap pouring out of your mouth like projectile verbal vomit.

There are only two explanations for such an insane manner of speaking:

1) You hate your job and are the equivalent of French waiters.Your sole source of joy is through the confusion you spread during the painful ten minutes passengers spend trying to translate your incomprehensible drivel.

Or

2) We are most likely pawns in a sick little experiment. A group of men in white coats are watching me on screen from their lab to find out how much provocation it will take to achieve total meltdown status.

My money's on the second option for the simple reason that I'm a paranoid freak, and results are inevitable. I can only say "What???!" so many times before feeling like I've entered another dimension where everything is the same, except cab drivers speak another language.

I am the rat, and you dear driver, are the stimulus.

Fear not, I will foil their diabolical scheme. Now if I can just get a schizophrenic Frenchman on the Eurostar to translate your gibberish, we'd be in business.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

I remember last year's Valentine's experience in Paris and if history is any indicator, I'm in for a treat. Last time went to a lovely restaurant near the Champs, the evening promised to be memorable as we clinked champagne flutes. It was unforgettable, just not in the way I expected.

The ritzy place was packed. You had your romantic old couples, your fresh young lovers, your first dates, and married types, etc. with one thing in common: They were all severely constipated.

Well, that's what I'm guessing anyway based on the looks on their faces.

A noob to the v-day dinner scene in Paris, I was scanning the room for other star-crossed lovers, which only seemed to lodge Cupid's arrow further up their asses.

You know how you're not supposed to look animals directly in the eyes because it's considered an act of aggression? Well the same rule applies to dinner guests apparently.

I glanced at the sweet old couple next to us, twitched a timid smile at them and feared the Gucci-clad-ice-queen was going to pelt me with focaccia rolls from the ornate porcelain bowl next to her. This is not done. I should've known, I mean this ain't my first time at the rodeo, and looking at people is asking for trouble.

And so it was that I learned rule numéro un about dinner in Paris:

Look at your plate...EYES ON PLATE DAMMIT!!

Pretend everything other than your plate is a burning, white-hot sun that will make your head burst into flames if you look directly at it, and you may yet survive.

After Geriatric-inferno-woman was done burning holes into my face, I don't know what got into me. I actually expected to eat. It had been roughly ten hours since my last meal. Bad idea. By the time our cocktails arrived I was considering cannibalism and my stomach sounded like a band of riled demons were ready to burst out of me like in Alien; which prompted more annoyed looks that unmistakably said "fucking control your bodily functions, hobo."

Hence... rule number two:

Eat before you go eat.

If you're going out to a really nice place, please remember that the more you pay, the less you will be consuming. Our dinner that night was comparable to what I used to feed my hamster, only slathered in butter sauce, topped with little bits of visible fat and something called emulsion whose contents were both mysterious and frightening. It was delicious and completely unsatisfying, and I think I ate desert in one giant mouthful and washed it down with a basket of bread.

Need to be somewhere after your dinner? Not anymore friend. Nope, you're not goin' anywhere. Whip out your sleeping bag and jammies, because this could take all night. There's a process. A timeline. And it must be respected. I'll lay it out for you in a real-life situation...

11:00 - you try and get the waiters attention, frantically waving your hands and screaming garçon!!! at the top of your lungs.
11:15 - said waiter lazily trots to your neighbor's table, asks if they need anything, then leaves without a glance in your direction.
11:25 - you stand up at your table and being waving semaphore flags, indicating that you need to pay.
11:30 - the waiter comes over to ask why you're being so obnoxious.
11:31 - your head explodes.
11:32 - your dinner date explains that you need the check and you will be paying by card.
11:40 - the waiter begins clearing deserted tables.
11:50 - the waiter brings you the check... but not the machine for the card.
11:51 - your date's head explodes.
11:57 - you go to the front of the restaurant with your card & check in hand.
12:00 - you pay, you leave 1€ tip, and petulantly mumble something under your breath much to the delight of the waiter.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Today is my birthday. Yiiipeeee!!!! No seriously, whoo-hooo!! At 28, I may be equipped with a jet-powered sled that will send me speeding down the slippery-slope to hagsville faster than you can say saddlebags - but I'm no pouter, dammit.

If my youth is visibly shrivelling into a brown, sad little raisin, then I'm going to be one of these fucking raisins. (I still can't believe they had their own cartoon. Total shit much?)

I'm not going to obsess over my present-and-future-sagginess. Nay, sir. Not yet.

I'll wait until 40 before certifying that the consistency of my thighs is slowly morphing into a ziplock baggie full of jello.

I'll hold off until 50 before poking my ass to compare it's firmness against that of a marshmellow.

At 60, I'll see how many tennis balls I can lose in the folds of my unseemly belly.

But for now, I'm not pulling my eyes up or out or any which way to hide wrinkles that will eventually make my face look like a shar-pei's turd-pump. Birthdays are not just about aging.

...Ok, so they're mostly about aging.

Of course I see more laugh lines & cellulite. I think the Vag police would confiscate my box if I didn't. But unlike nearly everyone I know, I'm boldly looking thirty straight in the eyes. We're having a staring contest and I'm going to beat thirty's ass, I tell you. If I had a cock, I'd tell thirty to suck it.

Everyone has their own way of celebrating or not. I hear you in the back, you & your "Yeah yeah, blah blah. You're in your TWENTIES whore. Your tune will change in ten years you perky-breasted bitch."

But for the moment, my birthday is fantabulous. My birthday is better than brioche. My birthday is a party in your pants.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

I'm doin' it. It's not for lack of material mind you... I just felt I needed to address this issue before people began asking me "soo... Chanel... why don't you ever talk about the herd of elephants in the room?".

Yes. Some of the Frogs have an interesting odor.

I don't mean interesting as in, makes you wrinkle your nose and suspiciously sniff your neighbor. Nope. I'm talking about the "wow, I think something crawled into your shirt and died in your armpits." interesting. The, "hmmm, Eau de Sauna... good choice." interesting. The, "If I have to stand next to you for five more minutes, I think dousing you with my projectile spew like you were a-blaze would be fair, if not deserved." interesting.

To be fair, I have to admit that these specimen are few and far between. Contrary to rumor, the streets are not littered with men who refuse to bath, or boys who think that a rancid-sausage musk makes their odorificness more manly.

But... we all know they're out there. I've even met a few in my day. These people amaze me. I'm curious. I want to study them. I'd round them up in a lab for observation and potency samples like stinky little rats if I could. In the name of science of course. Not because I want to drown them in shampoo and spray them with a fire hose while they traverse the crashing waves of suds. My first question for my little ratlings would be...

How do you STAND that shit?

No, really, I want to know? Is it years of training? Is it like Lavender - you smell it once, and then you can't really smell it again for years? Or is the stench so strong that over time it has in fact destroyed your olfactory senses?

Friday, February 5, 2010

What exactly do you think you're doing? Is there a reason you're always sneaking around my desk? Lost something? Your dignity perhaps?

You are scoring a 9 on my I-think-you-might-be-a-serial-killer-o-meter.

Your presence annoys me more than that Crazy Homeless Metro Violin Lady. And that's saying something since I want to beat that woman about her face and head with her instrument of torment.

I see you out of the corner of my eye, loitering around like a drug dealer, moving at a pace that would make my grandmother look like Usain Bolt, waiting for me to notice your pathetic creeptasticness.I'm not looking up dude.
I know you're French and all, so you think you have this potent Loverboy-Charm that I will find irresistible if I just look into your eyes... but I'm afraid your awkward, I'm-trying-to-hide-an-erection-saunter is just not doin' it for me.

You're about as attractive to me as this guy. (PS: who else is hoping he accidentally shoots his nuts off?)

So, kindly, knock it off, before I am forced to give you a look that will make you insecure for the rest of your distressingly-lame, stalky, life.

No, I will not tell you what band I'm listening to to avoid talking to you. No, no coffee. I'll be too tempted to scald your crotch.

And while you're at it, stop giving me that weird smile. Yeah. That one. Like there's some kind of secret we share. NEWSFLASH: I don't even know your NAME.

We have no secrets. Well, except for your name. The only thing we share is an office space and I'm already regretting that.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Ok, ok. So they didn't put it IN my mouth, but they might as well have.

My coworkers are the opposite of every group of frogs I've ever met. Your average colleague here doesn't offer you bonbons. Typically, said Frenchie assumes that because you're an American you've already got a snickers bar stuffed down your pants at any given time.

...What? So I enjoy my bars slightly melted? And yes, I am happy to see you. I fail to see the connection.

Anyway, my colleagues are different. They're the French equivalent of a devil in a blue dress. A wolf in sheep's clothes. Le Loup en Bleu, quoi. I swear they've been plotting since Christmas. The object of their scheme? To make me into a Fatty-fat-fat of course.

The little wheels in their heads have been spinning overtime.

Exhibit A:
A day has not gone by without a chocolate object strategically placed within 1 meter from my desk.

Exhibit B:

They always buy things I can't resist.
- Peanut M&Ms
- Those little cookie sticks you dip in coffee
- Anything with more than a gram of chocolate

Exhibit C:
It's like some kind of cookie rivalry has sprung up amongst us. Who can bring in the most unhealthy snacks, has been replaced by Who can bring in the largest quantity of the most unhealthy snacks.

Exhibit D:
Point of fat fact, we've begun having crêpe parties for absolutely NO reason.

Exhibit E:
During the month of January I was invited to at LEAST FIVE DIFFERENT cake parties for the traditional "Galette des Rois", or as I like to call it the "Get your butter/sugar dose for the next quarter century cake".

Exhibit F:
What's with all the business lunches? I keep getting invites, and I can feel the fat cells accumulating with every bite. They're multiplying like some kind of virus.

They could at least be thoughtful and bring in something I hate. Like those ridiculous Macaroon cookies or black licorice. (Who eats black licorice anyway, that shit is just gross.) But, no. Here they come with home-made Brioche and jam, or Financiers from their grandmother's recipe.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Do you think I can't see you? Is this one of those deals, where, if you cover your eyes you become invisible? Because, I hate to break it to you pal, I'm watching you. I'm looking riiiiiiight at you.

And I totally saw you pick your nose just then.

Yep. Me vois toi. Seriously dude, you were gettin' it up there - I'm actually impressed.

No, no. Don't try and pretend you were itching. Let's not spoil it. That dog won't hunt, I've seen the goods. Thaaaat's it. Look out the window, now. Pretend that didn't happen. I'll just be over here laughing at you.

Unfortunately this scene is all too common. Almost a daily experience, weekly at least. Why do the pickers think you can't see them? This is one of those age-old questions that will probably haunt me until the day I die. Until the day I die, or decide to pick my nose on the metro.

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Me? Sarcastic??

Discovering the truth about Parisians... one humiliating story at a time.
This blog is a caricature and I am the self-appointed queen of exaggerationland.
The highly sensitive, sarcastically-challenged, emotionally-constipated and humorless should jump ship immediately.
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